Peeta's Perspective
by BigWorldSouth
Summary: This re-write of the series will take you through the unique perspective of Peeta Mellark, from start to finish. The first few chapters will be pain-stakingly cannon, but there will be some big changes to Peeta as a character.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers:

I do not own, and I am not part of, The Hunger Games.

This story will be painstakingly accurate to the details of the books and movies for the vast majority of its chapters, and the ends of the chapters here will correspond with the ends of the chapters in the real books. However, it will deviate from the cannon story at certain points in very, very significant ways. Even if you aren't familiar with the books and movies, you will know where those points are and how they deviate from what's in the books and movies.

Part 1: The Tributes

The sun is streaming in through the window, but I've been awake for hours. Long enough to see the blood red stain on the clouds the sun greets the sky with. Fitting, given the purpose of the day.

Normally, the whole bakery would be alive with fire and the smell of bread in the ovens. Today, though, only a few smoldering fires burned in their brick institutions. The bread has already been baked, the first customers already gone. Later, there would be more getting food to celebrate the lives of their children. But for now, more pressing matters lay heavily on the whole district.

I throw myself out of bed to make my obligatory batches of dough that won't be baked for several hours. If we don't make the dough early, though, there won't be enough bread for the customers later. And if we bake it now, it won't be warm for the customers later. These were the virtues of a baker that my mother had beaten into me years ago.

I put on the burnt clothes I've been baking in for the past three years. They used to be tight, but time has had a way of stretching them out enough to be wearable. As the child of a merchant I have the luxury of nicer clothes, but those are not for baking in.

I walk downstairs to find the lean figure of Gale walking out with fresh bread. The smell of the loaves on display hits me instantly, reminding me of the rumbling in my stomach. My hand searches the counter while I pretend to be watching for customers and find a bit of burnt bread that I can enjoy while tending to my bakery duties.

The bakery counters are remarkably clean for a mining district. You almost can't distinguish the coal dust from the gray slabs that support bowls, ingredients, and a recipe book that the family has kept up for generations. Of course, there haven't been many contributions. We can't afford the bread we make, never mind the bread that might not be worth selling.

The wooden door at the back creaks open to reveal Gavin, back from feeding the pig. My dirty blond hair falls over his forehead, accenting our similar, soft features. People might say I looked like my oldest brother, if they weren't so focused on the bread they weren't eating. We exchange a curt nod in acknowledgement of each other's presence. This is the most brotherly bonding we experience in a day.

The process isn't difficult, but the ingredients for it are almost impossible to come by in the districts, even for us. But we manage by selling to the peacekeepers and officials from the mysterious Capitol. In exchange, we get access to things like flour, baking soda, salt, and milk.

Mix the dry ingredients until smooth. Add milk. Beat into a dough. Shape, set aside to rise. Wash, rinse, repeat. I've done this so many times that I almost don't have time to react to the roller-pin hitting the back of my head.

"You're late. You'd better work twice as fast to get the dough made in time," my mother crows. This isn't at all abnormal, but her voice is colder than usual. It takes a little more work this time to remind myself that there's love in it; that this is her way of making it easier to see her son entered in the reaping. "And I'd better not catch you slacking off again."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, but I'm not really sure if I still mean it or if it's just a reflex by this point. Either way I do get the work done. Better to make food you won't eat than to never eat at all.

With the work done I go upstairs to put on nicer clothes for the reaping. A white button-down shirt, some black slacks, and a belt. Of course these aren't every-day clothes, but the reaping is not an every-day event. By mandate of the Capitol, this is a special day to be celebrated. And you'd better celebrate. You could very well be shot if you're caught not having enough fun watching children get selected at random to bludgeon each other to death.

The rules are simple. From each of the twelve districts two tributes, one boy and one girl, are chosen at random to compete in a game of survival. Every year, the tributes are rounded up and taken to the Capitol to train for a few weeks before the games. Then they're thrown into an arena full of weapons and cameras to fight to the death for the Capitol's entertainment and the suppression of the districts. The Games are a condition of the Treaty of Treason, and the Capitol's way of saying "we own you, we own your children, and we will do with them what we please. Look at how easily we round them up and force them to kill for our entertainment."

When we get to the square, the camera crews are already looking down hungrily at the crowds like vultures. At any opportunity for misfortune, they swoop in to get every moment. The whole complex is dressed up for the occasion with bright banners and holiday-like festivities. But putting a bow on a monster doesn't change what it is inside. Just then, Effie's large hair and the highly decorated person supporting it step on to the stage.

The whole crowd is silent as its members sign in. Families stand in a tightly-knit ring around the age-separated groups of children submitted to the reaping. In some places it's an honor to bring glory to your district through the Games, but 12 has no reverence for dying as the Capitol's plaything. Here the people are far more somber.

I join the crowd of sixteens and exchange silent nods with the others. With that done, everyone turns their attention to the stage that's been constructed just for today. Three chairs wait for the event to start between two large glass bowls containing the names of this year's victims. There are thousands of slips, but four of them are all I can concentrate on. "Peeta Mellark," they say, written to avoid any possibility of mistake. But there are thousands of slips.

The town clock strikes two and just as it does, the mayor steps up to recount the story of Panem, to read from the Treaty of Treason, and to remind us that the Games are all our fault. To his credit, there was no hint of sincerity.

He now reads off the names of both of the past victors from district 12. 73 Games, 148 tributes, and only two came home. This is the perfect way to introduce Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving victor from 12, who staggers across the stage yelling drunken gibberish.

Not wanting Haymitch's show to go on any longer, the mayor steps up to introduce Effie Trinket, district 12's escort. In her sickly bubbly tone, she approaches the microphone to give her token "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

There are thousands of slips, I reassure myself. Thousands of slips.

"Ladies first," Effie coos, and the crowd is dead silent. She fishes her hand around the bowl trying to divine a name. Finally her fingers pass back up through the opening in the glass, grasping a slip of paper. She carefully undoes the tape keeping the name hidden until the proper moment, and reads the name once in her head to be sure she pronounces it correctly on the live broadcast.

"Primrose Everdeen!" she announces to the waiting audience.


	2. The Boy with the Bread

_Primrose Everdeen_. I know that name. I could never forget that name.

A terrified twelve-year-old girl walks down the aisle between the assembled groups to the stage. Her pale cheeks are trembling while she fights off showing signs of fear. _I know that name_.

A girl from the group of sixteens erupts out of the crowd and throws Prim behind her protectively, shielding her from the stage. "I volunteer!" she shouts. "I volunteer as tribute."

Five years ago, on a cold, rainy night, a girl the same age as me was searching through our trash can. It had just been emptied, but she only found out when she took off the lid. She was thin. Very. And I knew why. She'd spent months falling apart after her father's death. They had survived off of him, and now he was gone. I didn't know the whole story then. I don't know the whole story now. But the girl who knows it best was standing right in front of me, looking for something, anything, that could keep her alive.

"Move along! Do you want me to call the peacekeepers?" my mother spat. I didn't expect her to be compassionate to this girl. She wasn't even compassionate to her own children. Not really. She wanted us to grow up, and grow up fast, to avoid what was about to happen to the girl in front of me. I guess that's love. At least, that's her way of expressing it.

The girl did move along. But she was too weak to move very far. By the pig pen, just feet away from the trash, she collapsed in the mud. I knew how to stop this. I knew how to fix this. There was bread in one of the ovens, two loaves of it. I accidentally knocked both of them off the flat baking sheet and into the flames below. Accidentally, of course.

"Peeta!" my mother screamed, and she fished the loaves out of the flames. "What on earth were you thinking?" I didn't know. She set the loaves on the counter and before I could process what was happening, she spun around with a wooden mixing spoon and used it to slap me across the face. That was her favorite way to begin a life lesson. She threw the hot loaves into my arms and pushed me out the door. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

I walked over to the pig pen, making sure I didn't draw attention to her, and began ripping the burned parts off of the bread and throwing them into the trough for the pig, but carefully. I wanted to leave enough for her and her family. As soon as the bell rang and my mother returned to the store, I threw her the remaining loaves. I didn't even look at her. I'll never fully forgive myself for that. The way I just tossed them in her direction, into the mud, instead of just handing them to her. The way I walked away without even knowing if she was going to be alright. No, I will never forgive myself for that.

And there she is now, right in front of me. Katniss Everdeen. As frail as she was, she never looked weak. There was always strength behind those hungry eyes. There was always determination. Even now, as she sacrifices her life, there is strength in everything she does.

Prim tries to fight her away from the stage, but Katniss won't go. I can't hear the full dispute, and maybe things are better that way. This is no time to be sympathetic towards the girl next to the trash can. No, she's on her way to being dead in a few months. So why can't I make myself let her go?

"Well, bravo!" Effie Trinket says, feigning her undying Hunger Games spirit. "That's the spirit of the Games!" There again, she has been looking for a district with anything interesting going on in it. Maybe this is exciting for her. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," she says. Those words, her name from her own mouth, in her voice, are what make me fall apart. Katniss Everdeen. The girl I grew up with. The girl who sang the Valley Song in class, with her beautiful voice. I can't handle this. But I definitely can't let anyone see that. These are still the Hunger Games. This is still the reaping. I have to keep it together.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister," Effie continues. "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

No one even thinks about clapping. This is not ok. We may not be able to say anything, but sometimes nothing says more than words ever can.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone raises the three middle fingers of their left hand to their mouth and then towards the stage. Then someone else, and half the crowd, and I join in, too. This is a symbol almost never used in district twelve, one of the remnants of the war. It means thanks, admiration, and goodbye. All at once. Everyone in the crowd taking part in this is in serious danger, but no one cares. This is too important to think about.

Haymitch springs free of his chair and walks over toward Katniss. "Look at her. Look at this one!" he says, addressing the audience. He throws an arm over her shoulders, pulling her closer. "I like her! Lots of..." he pauses for a long time, trying to remember the right word. "Spunk!" he announces at once. "More than you!" He approaches the edge of the stage, Katniss no longer beneath his arm. "More than you!" he repeats, pointing into the camera.

Who exactly he is addressing isn't clear, but he is very clearly drunk. So much so that an insult aimed at the Capitol is not out of the question. He's about to continue but, luckily for himself and everyone else, he drops suddenly off the stage and knocks himself unconscious.

The vultures swivel to get a good shot of him lying out cold on the ground. This may be the only thing entertaining about the Games, but there is no time to enjoy it. Katniss is still on the stage, still being shipped away to fight for her life.

Desperate to get the attention on something else, Effie resumes the reaping. "What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" She quickly makes her way over to the bowl containing the boys, and whisks out the first one she finds. I don't have time to gather myself again before she rips it open and announces the name to the entire country.

"Peeta Mellark."

There is no time to be shocked. There is no time to figure out what exactly I'm feeling. No, I'm feeling nothing at all. Panic moves my feet towards the stage, and to the opposite side of Katniss. This time, there is no volunteer. No one pushes me behind them trying to protect me.

I look out at no one. Finding someone I know in the crowd could be dangerous. There will be time to be sad later. But now my name has been called. Now it's time to fight for my life.

The Mayor launches into his mandatory reading of the Treaty of Treason, another weapon of the Capitol meant to make us feel as helpless and crushed as possible. It blames everyone in the districts for the Hunger Games, like a petulant child explaining why nothing is his fault.

When he finishes, the mayor gestures for Katniss and I to shake hands. Her fingers are cold with the winter, and calloused from years of hunting. I give her hand a light squeeze to tell her that everything will be alright, that her family is safe. Those, and other lies.

There is so much that I want to say, but this is not the place, and the Anthem of Panem reminds me that it definitely isn't the time. We turn to face the crowd again, one last look before we're gone.


End file.
